


Recreant.

by popyourballoon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Stiles, Could Be Canon, Fluff, M/M, No Spoilers, Romance, Stiles Takes Care Of Derek, Vague, almost no references to other pack members, floating on it's own, no references to events in series, pure sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:44:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popyourballoon/pseuds/popyourballoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Traitor.</em> Stiles cursed at the steady rhythm. <em>Recreant.</em> Left hand came up to claw at the place somewhere on his chest as if he could reach inside it and squash away this very existence, now, a very, very miserable existence.</p><p>Fuck you, Derek Hale. </p><p>(OR: where Derek and Stiles discover that sex based on trust is purely amazing and a must-do;<br/>where Stiles discovers that he isn't enough for Derek;<br/>where Derek discovers that he needs to grow up as, in some ways, in all the ways that matter actually, Stiles is more BAMF than he will ever be.<br/>OR: where everything is too good to be true, Derek cheats and Stiles looses himself.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetae'd.
> 
> I have a cold, I cannot sleep, I write things, my head is spinning and you will know it by the weird, detached way this is written.

The thing is.

No.

The thing was.

No.

Fuck. 

His hands were shaking. Tingling as if all the emotions he could ever possess were trying to bleed out of him. Shit, the cold grass under sweaty palms felt really, really good; the dirt, assaulted by nails clawing away the frozen land to sink all ten fingers in deep, deep into the ground felt fucking emotionally explosive. The cold winter air calmed his nerves; the soil was therapeutically leaching away all the nervousness, grounding him, letting brain start up again. 

Only now, hours after the… _thing_ , Stiles felt marginally okay and finally noticed heart beating steady and still inside his chest, quiet. His brain was reeling, his body still shaking, but the heart, the heart which should be going crazy and a painful torturing reminder about the events of this morning… The fucking heart was completely fucking _chill_. Like it had known all this time what was coming. Not his brain, no. Not even his superb instincts, fuck no. His fucking heart. Unsurprised. Unperturbed.

 _Traitor._ Stiles cursed at the steady rhythm. _Recreant._ Left hand came up to claw at the place somewhere on his chest as if he could reach inside it and squash away this very existence, now, a very, very miserable existence.

Fuck you, Derek Hale.

 

*

It stands as no secret: the trust carefully threaded, weaved and nurtured was the only tangible connection between them.  Never once the meetings they had were about hanging out, the pack or life, or any other mundane thing that could find its way into this world of supernatural revelations. Always trust, always necessity to act on or with said trust, towards defeating the new big bad of the day. As well as any other problem not easily solved by simply talking it out or growling “I am the Alpha” at everyone concerned.

Trust meant a lot. In the light of recent and not so recent happenings of their lives, trust was sacred, more potent than any grand emotion like love or friendship or brotherhood or _whatever_. Everyone had at least once betrayed Stiles, except for Derek and Derek, well, his issues were unparalleled, but he seemed to appreciate, respect and acknowledge the teenager as his trustee, as the one person who always tried to save his life, consequences be damned.

That is how Stiles saw it, that is how Derek acted.

Nice. It was nice and safe and amazing. It didn’t have to lead anywhere; it didn’t have to mean anything. Ability to trust this one person was all that he needed amongst the chaos. Sometimes it was all that stood between giving up or slipping away.

 

*

No surprise there.

Skin under his fingers felt slightly cooler, but very pleasant. Derek wanted this. Derek wanted _him_. With every inch of his cock. With every spike in the pulse down _there_. He tasted fresh and young and very surprised. Like spark, like experience, like mile-a-minute. It felt safe. Derek felt as if he could be free in what he wanted, like he could _thrust_ into this trust and fucking live for once.

What was surprising, though, infuriating even — those amber eyes looking at him; those long fingers softly touching his cheek. No hint of lust, just a bit of surprise, bit of calculation openly presented by soft brown irises. Stiles’ scent gave away wonder, the usual amount of teenage hormones, the usual amount of sharp cinnamon scent of him thinking, wheels turning, but nowhere there, nowhere around, inside or maybe potentially soon directed towards Derek, was the scent of interest. Even lustful interest. Like this had never occurred to Stiles.

“I’ll think about it.” No burst of words, no rambling, no nervousness. Only infinite amount of trust for Derek not to be an asshole, not to shut him out and patiently accept request to _decide_.

He could do it. He didn’t want to do it, but apparently there was a need for him to understand and step away.

One step.

Another.

Gone.

 

*

 

Stiles had gotten good at this werewolf stuff. So _good_. Sometimes he frightened himself exactly by how much he could control scents, heartbeats, thoughts and reactions he gave out. Scott was his coach in such matters as it had paid off for enemies to think that the annoying human was the least of their worries, always underestimating, always giving way for failure and spectacular fall-outs.

Admittedly, more often than not, he did use these same skills against their pack. Stiles liked the option of being human unaffected by all those super-senses, safe in his own mind and skin.

Cue exception, your name is Derek.

Stiles was mindful of the gruesome past evidence he found in the way a certain Alpha werewolf presented himself to world and to pack. Even more mindful of the simple way both of them interacted much differently with each other than with anyone else. Stiles never in million years would give up the reliance amongst them for the sake of simple, stupid teenage lies just to save him from the small embarrassments of life.

This. This was no lie. Somewhere along the lines of constant life changing cataclysms, he’d shedded away the mere thought, the basic idea of being in love or in a relationship or, fuck, even crushing on someone. Stubbed it out, pressed it down for later examination someday far in the future where life was no longer so fragile it could slip away from his body any day now.

The emotions on Derek’s face, open to him alone, the press of those stupidly, incredibly inviting lips was a complete surprise. He should have known, should have talked it out, and should have _asked_ what it meant. But he didn’t, too caught up in the fact that it was one of those things he would have never, ever predicted. Not by a mile, _fuck_ , not by a couple of universes.

Now, Stiles guessed, was the moment everything started to go wrong.

But before it could, there were days of lists, pros and cons, graphs, sleepless thinking, dialogues with Stiles No.1 and Stiles No.2 and, finally, decision making. No mistakes could be allowed. At the time, as he saw it, everything was clear. They had trust and trust was the only emotion Derek allowed himself. Only emotion stable and healthy and _good_ enough, it warranted as basis of something that the werewolf had not allowed himself since Kate.

Stiles was painfully, clearly aware that he could NOT screw this up. He could not afford to say “yes” if he didn’t think he could totally, 100% follow through. The biggest, most important responsibility to soothe, to care, to prove to Derek that life was worth living through touches; by being touched and by touching. Eventually, maybe, probably, hopefully learning to love again, learning to be in a relationship, looking forward to future that could include some wolfy version of a partner and 2.5 children. Or at least lead up to a functional pack with a father figure not just someone who barks orders.

That was a huge fucking responsibility. The _huge-est_ , possibly the most important, responsibility in whole of the Beacon Hills. And it was given to Stiles. It was not to be taken lightly. He had his own issues, he had the simple luck of being able to postpone his once blooming sexual discovery time by locking it all away. To unlock it, to dedicate it for Derek, that had some serious implications.

Honestly, after few sleepless nights, he couldn’t think of any excuses for not doing it. He had some growing up to do, some emotions that needed catching up on and he needed Derek. Not to drown in someone young and stupid, but to find how strong, how pleasant, how deep, how far the words ‘I trust you’ could take people like Stiles and Derek.

 

*

 

Lately, sitting still was a frustrating mission of impossibility. Wolf had to run, had to hunt and leap away from all these human problems. Wolf seemed to think that Derek should just go and claim someone and get things done by owning a person in a way only an animal could and should. Rutting, mating, settling. Clean cut, done deal. Fin.

Unfortunately, Derek didn’t feel nowhere near agreeing to the way instincts screamed at him. Simply, he was not ready for such course of action. He felt ready for sex, he felt ready to explore and remember things he had forgotten, but he did not want to get ahead of himself, ruining everything once again. He was given, by the eternal magnanimous forces of universe, a person he could trust. A person whose trust he wanted to explore further. This was not a blind emotion, it had merit, it had basis, it had an empirical experience on which it was based. In its entirety, the connection between him and Stiles was something that could be built upon and tried further for healthy emotional development. For a better future.

But Derek was hardly a patient man when solution to everything was simply a breath, a word of persuasion away. Selfishly he did not make a move to press the issue further only by coming to realization that letting Stiles decide for both of them would be more beneficial.

Fallowed by reasoning such as this, Derek just stayed in his wolf form for as long as he could, to make the wait more bearable.

That’s how Stiles found him, chasing a pray in full Alpha shift. Impressed and startled by the successful sneaking up on him the teenager had done, Derek shifted back without thinking.  Stiles didn’t have even the slightest decency to blush, eyes full of mirth and something else while taking in the naked werewolf in front of him.

One step.

Another.

Close.

They were pressed together, nimble fingers dusting away leaves and imaginary dirt from his face and shoulders. One sneaky finger forcefully pressed against his chest, followed by a stern tone:

“This will not, _cannot_ , affect the basis on which we are doing it, okay?” For once, all the missed innuendos were not pointed out neither by tone or suggestive glances. “If any one of us feels that things are starting to go to _shit_ , we talk it out, if needed, get over it, _no problemo_ , no hard feelings, life happens, blah, blah, blah and we go back to being the way we were before.” Stiles was shaking a bit. This was important to him. Hell, it was important to Derek, the possibility, the option to go back if nothing good came out of it.

“Okay.” He smiled. Curiously, he felt like smiling.

“You should smile more. It looks good on you.” Apparently whatever it was, that Stiles was seeking in his face and his eyes, was enough of a confirmation, enough of an invitation to press forward. To touch the smile on his face, to smile back, to kiss.

And there it was. Lust, interest, slight desperation, fresh curiosity and obscene, painfully obscene tenderness in the press of his lips, as if he would pull back, stop and step away if Derek showed any resistance, any discomfort.

It was… enough. It was glorious. He didn’t intend to let go.

Good. It was simply very good. Stopping was inconceivable. Impossible.

 

*

 

Stiles thought, by the end of the night, he will be properly bruised and claimed and marked.

As it turned out, that was not a thing. Not a Derek to Stiles thing. Not a werewolf to Stiles thing.

He should be more disappointed in the fact that he trusted porn in such matter when it lied so shamelessly _all the time_.

But, on the other hand, it was so _so_ Stiles to Derek thing. He just couldn’t stop fucking biting. Fucking and biting. Biting and then fucking. Watching the marks disappear. _Fuck_.

He felt blissful. He felt amazing. Aroused. Derek smiled, _smiled_ and palmed him as if he knew what Stiles was thinking as if he knew that he was two seconds away from becoming hard again.

_Yes._

 

*

 

First weeks went by in a haze. Stiles couldn’t believe he’d been such a moron by basically condemning himself to a nun-like status. Derek couldn’t believe how good the sex was, when it was based on _actual_ trust. Both of them could not as of yet comprehend how good it felt founding understanding such as this one, on what they had. It was easy. There were no judgments, no shyness, just pure, honest-to-god exploration from touch to touch, understanding how to go through all the right steps and to arrive to all the right consequences.

It was by no means rushed or complicated. The glass was overflowing and they were taking care of emptying it again, so desperation didn’t swallow them whole or drown them with haste.

After that things went back to a new version of normal. Derek was a bit more relaxed, a bit less guarded and the softness, fondness in his eyes was more often than not the cause, the beginning of their nights together. They took it slow after the initial burn, the initial fire was quenched.  Derek had never had sex with a man before, so he was spending most nights revelling in the simple pleasure of discovery, reconnaissance and freshness of it all. Unsurprisingly, Stiles was the one who showed him the ropes, who did the research and made lists of suggestions. 

Sometimes they did nothing but touched.

Sometimes Derek got lost in counting flecks in Stiles’ amber eyes.

Sometimes Stiles got lost too.

 

*

 

He supposed this progression, if early, was completely normal. They met up less, side-tracked by fighting evil and everyday routines. What they could sneak in, they did, always exceeding the expectations and gaining more sure footing in this crazy world than they ever imagined having.

That should have been the alarm bell. Actually, most things that happened should have been alarm-bell-worthy. But Stiles was falling in love, he didn’t see and nothing, nothing indicated that he should see.

Nothing except the way Derek was lost, so fucking lost not hearing Stiles, as some disgustingly sexy guy was plowing him against the wall. And those sounds… Derek had never made those sounds before. Never had been so lost before. Never with him. Apparently perfect strangers did it for Derek. Apparently trust was bullshit. Apparently, well, a lot of things.

 

*

 

It was a bit dramatic, but he needed to regroup. With freezing fingers he stood up from the ground, stopped clawing at his heart, closed his eyes and searched the massive archive that was Stilinski brain.

No biting. No marking. No possessiveness. Lies. No bottoming. A lie. Caught-up-in-a-routine. Busy. Lies. No going out together. A lie. No aggressiveness in bed. A lie.

Each lie like a turn of a key locking away something he had given up with no additional questioning. He wasn’t doing this to get back to the obliviousness of his previous resolution. He was doing this to put some distance between everything he felt and the facts he wished to ignore. Obviously, Derek cared about Stiles. The softness in his eyes, the long stares, the touches, the sex, and the fucked-up trust-based relationship they had, that was all real. What wasn’t real, were the conclusions he had drawn from all that heap of glaring holes around those things they had. Derek didn’t ask Stiles to fix him, to be with him just so he could one day enter functional, healthy relationship with the teen. Derek had asked to be fixed. He trusted Stiles to fix him. Trusted to teach him how to be tender and gentle, how to approach, how to show affection, how to have sex, make love, fuck, judge and correctly conclude what the other person wanted, how to give pleasure, inspire passion and most of all, heal all the insecurities he had about himself so he could learn to communicate with other human beings. Not in so many words, yes. Not in any words at all actually. But he hadn’t survived this long by not knowing how to deduce stuff. Even if he was deducing something he didn’t want to.

Afucking+, Stiles. Achievement unlocked. Derek Hale, functional member of society, unafraid to go out and get what he needs, unafraid to ask for it, to give and to receive, to put trust in people he didn’t know long enough so he could take them home.

Ffucking-, Stiles, for not noticing that a teenager who had some minor experience in sex, no matter how eager, trusting and willing he is, is of-fucking-course not enough for one grown-ass Alpha male.

 _Logic._ Where have you been, man?

He didn’t know, he didn’t know, he didn’t know. Probably he left reasonable chunk of himself in those impossible grey-green-blue eyes.

He had to get it back.

 

*

 

Not happening.

No,

no,

no.

He should have been honest. Should have talked.  Stiles explicitly demanded that they talk if something didn’t work out. He had ignored it as he ignored most things that involved verbal communication.

Derek didn’t ask how he knew. Derek didn’t ask ‘where was I when you were being so incredibly observant?’ Mostly he tried to find words and explain, but Stiles did it for him. He tried to find the correct way to demand for things to continue as they were. With more talking, swear to god, more talking this time. All the talking. Mouth didn’t work. No syllables came out, no sounds formed.

He agreed about being in the wrong here. At the same time he didn’t feel guilty about his motivations, only about the way he hadn’t communicated them. Stiles had shown him how to be better at being close, had given him a real chance to find a lover, a mate, a partner somewhere along the way. Hopefully, sooner than he expected. Which had been ‘never’, now upgraded to ‘before long’.

“Listen, I understand.” There was an intense look directed at him. Stiles was searching for something in his eyes and he seemed to find it the longer he looked. Derek wanted to close these damn eyes and never give him whatever it was that made Stiles so sure of himself, so sure of what he wanted and needed to say.

“I am young and I have a whole life ahead of me, okay? I haven’t had bad experiences sexually or relationship-wise. Only inappropriate, long-term crushes.” Stiles fucking laughed at his joke.  With genuine mirth, like he trusted Derek to understand what was happening, as if he saw the understanding in his eyes, while Derek was 99.9% sure there was no such thing to be found there.

“And you, well, you know. Bad stuff happened, Derek. The worst.” He honestly looked appalled by the fact that Derek’s past was unfairly gruesome. “It’s only natural that now, when you have understood what you want, what you like and dislike and all the social etiquette that comes with getting it, you are spreading your werewolf wings and checking things out. I can totally relate to that.” Stiles was keeping every expression his face made open and honest. His scent stayed unreadable, too mixed, and too foreign for Derek to decode. “I would like to do that too.” Deep breath, pause. He was so fucked. “But I can’t do both. I really wish my emotional wiring was a bit more different, but it’s not. I am discovering myself trough you re-discovering yourself and that means I unconsciously tie myself to you, investing a lot of feelings there. Almost like a relationship. And you are not ready for that. I am probably not ready either.” Internally Derek cursed himself for not being the better person, for making Stiles say difficult things just because he had lost the capability to be serious, to be an adult, to make this easier. 

“Basically, what I am trying to say, we are not in a head-space for commitment and all the rest of it. We just really like gay sex.” Another smile. “And as I can’t, astonishingly for a teenager, be in a something like a relationship _and_ fuck around _or_ let you do it, I guess we have to break up and continue onwards with the fucking. With other people.” The good-natured, funny expression accompanied by those words left Derek feeling gutted. Cheated. And he, technically, was the fucking cheater.

“Thank you, Stiles.” He meant it. After all, he had to force some of the words out. “How about this: lets break-up and then have a dinner and movie with the pack?” Never in life has anyone tried to make a joke as hard as Derek did just now.

“God, man, never do that again. I know you have a good heart. No need to ruin that by making good-hearted jokes. Deadpan is a better colour on you.” Stiles burst in short, quiet snickering and Derek’s gutted feelings were accompanied by a heart clenching, overwhelming emotion that took over his whole body for a long, painful burst.

The price of being free, the price of going back.

It was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Derek, when will you ever learn — Stiles is what we all want and need. Especially you.  
> Porn and less detached writing (fluff, angst and romance with words, omg) to follow as soon as I am not floating from meds. Because porn is super-weird on meds. 
> 
> Hey, and thank you if you got this far. Please don't hate me.


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lap dances and muffins?  
> I need more of those meds, please. Thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should write dialogues and just leave for someone else to fill out the rest (in here nothing accompanying them is deliberate, by the way).  
> If you feel I need to write more, let me know. For this story or otherwise.  
> If you feel like I need to shut up, yeah, let me know that too.

Crowd roared.

Lights focused.

It felt so exhilarating to be lost. To not belong. To reach out and take.

To feel whole.

 

*

 

All the romance seemed to crumble beneath the logical path that emerged from his brain.

No alcohol. No clubbing. No mindless social outings. Just school, homework, pack, defeating evil. Stiles focused on those with careful determination. Additionally, took up running as a management tool when it all got too much. Not in woods, but around the neighbourhood where certain someones couldn’t jump out or happen to be in a way just to get his attention.

Let the pain show. Let the emotions flow free. No hiding, no pretence, no false ‘I am fine’. No deceitful scenting to prove a point. He decided to be an adult about this.

Unlike Derek. With that pleased fucking smile, barely hidden every time he noticed teen wallowing in misery, drowning in sadness. With that screaming smugness, yelling _you are my possession and you’ll run back to me. You will tolerate my flaws._

Stiles didn’t let it get to him. He will manage his own heartbreak, thank you very much. Manage in a way that was best for inner emotional well-being and general future enjoyment of life. Let the others think that he was a pathetic teenager who couldn’t keep his annoyance, hurt, longing and agitation in check by not drowning himself in drugs, illicit substances; by not letting himself feel an almost irresistible gravitational pull from perfect strangers just to forget for one night and flaunt in an obviously false way that he was _fine_ , that he was _over it_. Methods like those didn’t seen appealing.

Rebounds were for dummies.

Stiles _was not_ a dummy.

 

*

 

He waited until looking at Derek didn’t hurt, didn’t make him feel inadequate. He waited until he had no desire to say ‘screw this’, until he had no desire to proceed fucking as if nothing had happened. He waited.

He fucking endured.

 

*

 

First changes were easy to miss. Over the weeks broadcasted broken emotions and silly pinning subdued until it disappeared. He had been lost in a strong belief of Stiles breaking and falling back into his arms eventually. So lost thinking that now, now after he had explained and had had lengthy discussions about what happened, the teen would accept it and their relationship would proceed as if never interrupted. So lost he missed the scent of sadness being replaced by a scent of peace.

Never, never you would catch Derek admitting he missed the signs since he slowly drowned in his own sadness. Choking on his foolishness.

 

*

 

“Do you still trust me?”

“Of course. We agreed of not changing the foundation, right?”

“Yeah. I am sorry I didn’t talk. I…”

“I know. You never were a talker. I should have seen the flaw in that particular planning.”

“Will we ever go back?”

“I don’t see how that would be possible.”

“Unless we change.”

“People don’t change, Derek.”

“House MD was proven wrong on several occasions, you know.”

“Yeah. Those things don’t happen overnight.”

“No. No, they don’t.”

 

*

 

Next came the sightings. Nothing serious at first.

Stiles kissing a boy in the club.  
Stiles laughing with a girl in a pool.  
Stiles having a romantic dinner at diner.

The serious ones fallowed later. Like a pattern.

Stiles blowing a boy in the club.  
Stiles fucking a girl in a pool.  
Stiles having sex after dinner at diner (in the back of the kitchen).  
Stiles doing dirty dancing. 

Stiles having youthful, reckless fun. Stiles friending new people. Stiles gaining admirers. Never above his age, was said, the only conciliation ever presented to Derek, who fallowed those news snippets as lifelines.

Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.

And then.

And then.

Then _Jungle_ happened.

 

*

 

It went silent as soon as all lights fell onto the stage. Music cut off, club eerily silent, no announcements made. Just a sound of someone dragging a chair from a backstage. A boy. Tight blue jeans, white low cut, tight fit V neck shirt and one very well fitting red-blue plaid shirt over it. The blue colour in the shirt matched perfectly with the colour of jeans and nothing, nothing in the outfit even dared to suggest that this was a style frequently frowned upon. Here, now, it was the best motherfucking fashion statement in the world. Paris would weep from jealousy. New York would _grovel_ at the sight.

Any notion of the male on the stage being a boy disappeared as soon as his face became visible. There was a smirk on perfect, plush lips, not to be disregarded as a simple gesture of mirth. No, this was pure seduction. _That_ was a _man_ who knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

Long, long legs stopped at the very edge of the stage. Stiles didn’t shy away from hands reaching out to touch, but quietly ‘tsk’ed’ the crowd and sneaky fingers fell away, hypnotized. Slight bite in the lip and pointed look at the chair behind him, at the hand holding it. Spectators stared at one perfect palm transfixed, fallowing Stiles’ gaze as if he had issued a command. The chair which Stiles had dragged across the stage was turned, one smooth motion, a simple circle to position it up exactly as it was before -- with its back against the crowd; well, that motion could only be named as _obscene_. No nervous ticks, no clumsiness, just perfect long fingers operating the seat as if _the name_ was not Stiles but Chippendale No.1.

His smirk grew and eyes glinted darkly. Stepping over in a one simple move, Stiles ended up standing over the chair, legs on each side, thumbs looped _just_ behind where the button of the jeans rested, while eight perfect nails scraped across the front of the fabric. In the quiet of the club sound travelled far, received with a gasp from the audience. Arching an eyebrow, he seemed to ask ‘You want me to move my hips?’ but no sound was made. Everyone held their breaths hoping that the unspoken question will be answered soon.

What no one did expect was Stiles doing just _that_. Arching his hips and sliding down, head upturned, neck exposed, ass straddling the chair in the same movement as if he was sinking down onto _something_ invisible, relaxing his hands against the back of the chair, crotch exposed, intimate lines unhidden from view. Some catcalled. Some whistled. Some just screamed and demanded more. Stiles shushed them all by tapping one finger against his lips. Someone from somewhere tossed him a microphone.

“Thanks, Jack.” Microphone was a medium not only to let his voice travel clearly, but to also show-off some very dirty moves on the device which could be translated as a cockteasing without actual cocks involved.

“Anyway. Guess who was barely legal yesterday and is very, very legal today, m?” It didn’t take a genius to guess the correct ‘who’ involved; crowd screamed the answer and no one got it wrong.

“I think it deserves some celebration, no?” Uproar was deafening, but Stiles only grinned openly with a small trace of his everyday personality leaking through.

“Mmmhmmm, I have decided that someone will receive a lap-dance today as a celebratory gift for this special occasion.” What a great alternative way to say ‘shut up’. Anticipation was so thick it could be sucked.

 “From me.” Seemed like all those stereotypes were complete and utter lies. It took no greater convincing or greater pause or social experiments about people’s stupidity and lack of brain power to process things quickly. As soon as those two words left his mouth, hands shot up in the air, frantically asking, _begging_ to be chosen, begging to be completely and utterly ruined, wrecked and used on the stage.

“And… It’s gonna be a striptease as well.” Stiles laughed.

 

*

 

_Fuck._

The whole video was on Youtube. A sensation. Went viral just seconds after the show and better versions kept popping up everywhere, edited to perfection from various sources. Nothing could capture the live show in the glorious entirety, but, oh, they fucking tried. Those bastards.

The lucky girl on stage seemed like she would pass out any second. Not only she was allowed to touch Stiles while he danced, she was allowed, by careful and teasing direction from the man himself, to undress him. All. Every last scrap of clothing gone by eager hands. She was the only one who saw Stiles completely exposed close-up, but the sight from audience didn’t really leave anything to imagination.

Dazed, gulping large breaths, lip bitten, hands shaking, she reached for the half-hard treat in front of her while still on stage, as if she couldn’t help it, just as the lights went out, the music dimmed and all that fallowed was a genuine laugh erupting from the darkness before the club blasted back into its busy disco dance theme.

Derek cursed.

All that fucking goddamn perfection could’ve been his. Passion, mischief radiating trough and over anyone who was lucky enough to be allowed near it, to be allowed to touch, taste, experience. And once, once exclusively that lucky person had been him. Stiles had been Derek’s. Had been.

He was such an idiot.

Fucked-up recluse. Undeserving.

No more.

 

*

 

“I have changed.”

“No. No you haven’t.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a heartfelt declaration. It was a command. ‘I am changed, lets fuck right now’.”

“Would it be so bad, so disgusting?”

“No. It wouldn’t be bad or disgusting. It would ruin me. I have no desire to be ruined.”

“I don’t want to ruin you!”

“But you would anyway.”

 

*

 

The first time Stiles topped, he cried after. Facial expressions of the man, his body language, his total lack of awareness, dazed look in dark brown eyes, Stiles read all of that. He understood. He fucking understood.

It was hard to trust someone you knew with such a vulnerable side of yourself. Strangers were easy. You didn’t have to deal with strangers later. Didn’t have to look them in the eye, knowing that they _knew_. 

Stiles wore his heart on a sleeve. It was easy for him to show off vulnerability.

Others were not made that way.

He cried. He understood.

He didn’t want to understand.

 

*

 

“I needed you. I needed your trust.”

“I know.”

“Now… I still need you. And. Now I _want_ you.  All of you. _You_ want me.”

“Yeah. But I don’t _need you_.”

 

*

 

Small steps. Small.

Making time to train Stiles. Fists clenched, teeth grinding, striking a deal with Deaton, to teach him magic.

Always be aware of Adderall schedule, always seek favours and research during waking hours, trying to never take long, never ask too much. Include Stiles in any and all plans. Never leave him to figure out something daredevil-ish on his own. Building back that obviously shattered trust. Knocking on his bedroom window. Asking things. From everyone, not only Stiles. No commands unless completely necessary.

It became a habit to know and be interested in what pack was interested in. To allow them to see what he liked for himself as well.

Somewhere along the way he forgot why he was doing this, really. Was it to… Better himself? Surely, there had been some other reason?

 

*

 

“Why! Why are you doing this?”

“…”

“Well?”

“So no one has to need anyone. For backup. Or anything else. For everyone to already _have_ each other to rely on. For all of us to survive if we end up alone on our own paths.”

“Oh.”

 

*

 

“So what, you are all coming to Jungle with me? Is this the new reality now?”

“I am never ever going to miss you strip again.”

“That was one time!”

“Give me an hour with you at the bar and there will be a second one…”

“I am in as well!”

“And me!”

“Lets get him drunk!”

“I am paying.”

“Well… Shit.”

 

*

 

He did strip that night. Along with everyone else from the pack. It was quite the event. They all got laid in the backrooms afterwards. Derek was next to him, sucking someone off. Stiles was fucking a different guy. They never looked away from each other.

 

*

 

“Why?”

“I never imagined that you’ll be _this_. That somewhere inside you was a person perfectly capable of giving me all the things I wanted and needed. I was afraid of exposing too much and discovering you not being ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“What? That I could be a passionate little fucker, perfectly capable of managing both of our needs?”

“Hah, yes, something like that.”

“You know -- I was ready to burst out of my shell as soon as you give an effort to crack it. But you always looked at me like I am your fucking sex therapist. All trustworthy and all nice. I didn’t know how to show you me being any different.”

“I didn’t see. I was too busy being blind and self-centred. I became so desperate for something _more_ , other people seemed so tempting and agreeable. We didn’t have any exclusivity agreement and the asshole that I am… I decided that was as good as permission.”

“Talking becomes you.”

“I _am_ sorry.”

“I know. I don’t regret it happening. We came out better because of it. I think.”

“You did.”

“You are almost there.”

 

*

 

“You were having a lot of sex.”

“You are one to talk.”

“Was it-?”

“To forget? No. I waited until I was over you, so I could enjoy all those bodily functions and revelations. To just be a normal teenager.”

“The lap dance?”

“To prove a point. To relish not being tied down, not needing to exceed expectations or give explanations.”

“…”

“What are you doing?”

“Seducing you.”

“Stiles… I am not ready yet.”

“It amuses me, you using that tone which implies that muffins are still not ready to come out of the oven.”

 

*

 

“I want those fucking muffins, for Christ sake.”

“No. I don’t know why you think that they are ready enough for you, but first _I_ have to be convinced that they _are_ ready before giving them to you.”

“Baking metaphors, really.”

“You started it.”

“Mature.”

 

*

 

“Are we going to strike an agreement?”

“You mean, talk it out? Terms and conditions?”

“Yes.”

“When and if you feel the need for someone else, tell me and we will agree to it then.”

“You have forgiven me enough to do that???”

“Yes. And I have discovered that there is a lot more grey than black and white. Maybe I’ll want to slip up.”

“Maybe we can slip up together?”

“Kinky.”

 

*

 

“Are you going to therapy?”

“No.”

“Then how are you getting better?”

“I do what I have always done since recently.”

“And?”

“I ask myself ‘What would Stiles do?’”

“Eat the muffins half-baked.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I really, really would. I am no role-model.”

“No. You are not. You are an anchor.”

 

*

 

“How will you know?”

“When I don’t feel like an asshole.”

“OH MY GOD. That will take forever!”

“Until pack looks at me and doesn’t see me as an asshole?”

“Well. I guess that’s doable.”

 

*

 

“Hey! Daddy’s home!”

“…”

“OH MY GOD. I hear the timer for muffins ringing!”

“What muffins?”

“What timer?”

“Stiles?”

“…”

“Derek?”

“…”

 

*

 

Flash! themed box of chocolates was tossed into some corner, arrangement of gardenias fallowing soon after.

“Shit…” he’d bitten Alphas lips in retaliation for all this fucking torture. “You know what pisses me off?” silenced by a kiss and a hand undoing button of his jeans. “You completely forgot that you were doing it all just to get back into my pants, you fucker!” Derek laughed between breaths. “I don’t want to get into your pants.” Stiles arched an eyebrow, undressing the offending t-shirt away, away from this gorgeous body. “Okay, that too. But Stiles… _Fuck_!- Stop.” Strong hands on slim hips pushed the distracting grinding apart, just for a second, just to let the brain catch up with words. “I want to crawl back inside your heart and never leave. If you’ll let me.” Beautifully multi-coloured eyes stared intently into beautifully amber ones.  Stiles puffed in annoyance.

“Only if you let me crawl inside yours.”

“You are already there, Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry if anyone is offended by the way the story went.  
> This is how I see it going. Cheating is ugly and I am sorry if anyone has experienced it. Some people are just fucking douchebags regardless of gender. But, guys, _guys_ this is Stiles and Derek.


End file.
